He huffed a laugh, shaking his head. “I’d try to solve them before lunchtime. Usually did. Sometimes I’d correct her facts if she got them wrong.”
Clara smiled, the image of a little boy Jonas, brilliant, stubborn, adored, taking shape so vividly she almost saw him in the seat beside her. “What did she say when you corrected her?”
“She laughed,” he said, his eyes softening. “Always laughed. She said it meant I was paying attention.”
Clara’s chest pulled tight. “And school?”
His expression flickered. “Hell,” he admitted. “At first I didn’t fit. Too quick to answer, too quiet otherwise. Kids didn’t like me. Teachers thought I was disruptive. Mum figured it out, though. Realised I wasn’t misbehaving, I was bored.”
He smiled, almost shy this time. “She fought the system. Got me into a gifted program. Suddenly I was surrounded by kids who could keep up or at least tried to. That’s when it got easier. She always said it wasn’t about being the smartest in the room but about finding the room that didn’t dim your light.”
Clara pressed a hand to her chest, her throat tight. “She sounds… incredible.”
“She is.” His voice cracked slightly. He swallowed, eyes fixed ahead. “Even now. Even when she doesn’t always know who I am. She’s still… her. Still kind, even when the memories are gone. But as long as I have them, she’s still here, even when the dementia steals the rest.”
The car was silent for a moment, only the low hum of the engine and the whoosh of tyres on tarmac. Clara stared out the window, blinking hard. Dementia was one of the cruellest thieves in the world, not just taking from those who had it butfrom those who loved them too. Her grandfather had suffered the same fate, and it had been brutal to witness.
“What were you like as a kid?” she asked gently, needing to keep him talking, but wanting to lead him away from the darkness.
He chuckled under his breath. “Obsessed with puzzles. Anything I could take apart and put back together. Mum used to hide the toaster because I dismantled it three times in one week. I liked to recite facts at random, still do, I guess. Did you know an octopus has three hearts?”
Clara laughed, the sound surprising her with its ease. “I do now.”
He shot her a glance, the corner of his mouth tugging. “She said I was exhausting, but never in a bad way. Just… a boy who needed to know how everything worked.”
Clara studied him as he spoke, the way his profile softened, the way his hand flexed on the wheel when he mentioned his mum. He wasn’t just recounting facts; he was reliving it, piece by piece, and it was beautiful.
She realised she was holding her breath, not wanting to break the moment.
The care home was tucked behind an avenue of chestnut trees, its stone façade softened by climbing roses and neat flowerbeds. Clara noticed the curtains in the windows, lace, dainty, and the faint sound of birdsong rising over the hum of traffic. It felt peaceful, far away from the chaos of the bigger cities, from Oliver’s threats, from danger.
Jonas parked without a word, gripping the wheel tighter than necessary.
Clara saw the pulse at his temple ticking fast. “You’re nervous,” she said gently.
He glanced at her, caught out. “Always am. Some days she knows me. Some days…” His throat bobbed. “Some days she doesn’t.”
Clara’s chest ached. “Then let’s make today count.”
For the first time, he let out a breath that was almost a laugh and nodded.
Inside, the care home was warm and bright, with polished floors and the faint scent of lemon polish mingling with fresh baking from somewhere down the hall. Staff smiled and greeted Jonas by name, their affection clear. He wasn’t just a visitor here; he was known, respected, and loved.
“Your mum’s been waiting,” one of the nurses said softly. “She’s in the garden room.”
Jonas’s jaw eased. He reached for Clara’s hand, surprising her. “Come on.”
They stepped into a bright garden room where spring flowers bobbed in the breeze outside the window. On a wicker sofa, wrapped in a soft cardigan, sat a woman with silver hair pinned neatly, a book on her lap. She looked up, eyes warm and sharp with recognition.
“Jonas.” Her smile was radiant. “There you are.”
Clara felt Jonas’s hand squeeze hers once before he let go, crossing the space in long strides and crouching down before her. “Hi, Mum.” His voice cracked on the word. “I’m here.”
Clara’s eyes stung watching the way his big hands engulfed hers, the way his whole face softened. His mother cupped his cheeks with a look of such love it brought a painful pang to her chest. That was what true, pure love looked like. His mother scanned his face as if to reassure herself he was okay.
“You look better, my sweet boy.”
“I feel better, Mum.”
